Tortured Pleasure
by RockinJanelle
Summary: Sherlock had no idea where he was, but he was tied up, and under the control of his nemesis. Sherliarty. M for a reason.


**Title: **"Tortured Pleasure"  
><strong>Pairing: <strong>_Sherlock__/Moriarty__  
><em>**TV Show: **_BBC Sherlock__  
><em>**Word Count: **_~4,400_  
><strong>Rating: <strong>_M_  
><strong><br>A/N: DON'T JUDGE ME IT'S MY FIRST SMUT EVER.**

**And my last, truth be told. I had such a hard time with this, oh my god. I cannot do sexy times, that is just not in my DNA. I should just stick to angst and leave it all be for those that can actually write smut. I just bring down the reputation or something LOL**

**Oh man, this fic sucked. Took me a whole month to complete. This is like a day's project for some. NOPE, month. Fun.**

**Anywho, uh. Not much to say about this. I love the pairing, but I don't like the smut LOL Ohhhh, I'm such a silly bitch.**

**Enjoy!**

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x **

His head was pounding. Where was he? Hismind was racing, what had happened? Think, Sherlock, think—he didn't know where he was. What was around him? He didn't know, he had yet to open his eyes to find out. It smelled wet, dingy, a tinge of rust filling the air. Awarehouse, maybe. Sherlock felt his arms twitching. Spasms occurred every so often, everywhere around his body. Drugged, probably, and cocaine was the drug of choice. Who did this? Sherlock couldn't figure it out. All that he knew was that his head was pounding, his heart was beating at a moderately fast rate, and he was not back at his flat with John.

His head tilted back, his neck hurting from the strain. He tried moving, but his hands were tied behind his back, the chair trapping him. So someone captured him. Why? Think, Sherlock, think!—he squeezed his eyelids shut as much as possible, but he couldn't think of what had happened before this. Where was he? He wanted to open his eyes, but he heard footsteps rushing over to his side, the echo of the shoes clicking on the hard (possibly damp) ground beating in his head. So it was a warehouse.

Sherlock started to pant. The drugs were really taking a bit of a toll on his body, but he would manage. He had had worse. The footsteps gradually slowed down, casually walking toward Sherlock's body. Was it John? Unlikely, he didn't care where Sherlock was at that moment—maybe he did, but it was unimportant. Mycroft could be another possibility, but since when did Mycroft run anywhere? A hand touched the side of Sherlock's face, his eyes blinked open. There was no other possibility but this one. A familiar face smiled down at him.

"Oh, my dear, I was worried we overdosed you," the man whispered. Sherlock heard the lingering echoes of the voice bounce in his head. Sherlock blinked a few times, trying to make the room stop from spinning, stop from changing the man's appearance before him. He managed. Sherlock jerked away from the hand on his cheek, but it followed, keeping him inside the palm of destruction.

"Jim," Sherlock whispered, the deep voice stirring through Moriarty. Sherlock watched him smile. He knew he was not going to escape the grasp Moriarty had on him. There was no point in struggling. "What do you want?" The fingers on his cheek curled down, as if petting him. Sherlock did nothing.

"Nothing in particular," Moriarty replied, "I just wished to see you."

"You can see me any time of the day. Why do this, then?"

Moriarty sighed. He shifted his body toward the insides of the warehouse, but suddenly collapsed on Sherlock's lap, most of his weight on Sherlock's left leg. The hand that had been on Sherlock's cheek had now tickled around the back of his neck, as Moriarty's arm curled around him. As Sherlock shifted, Moriarty did as well. There was no point; he had a hold. "Oh, my dear, you know why," he said, his head not looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock did not tear his eyes away; Moriarty continued to talk. "Don't you get so bored of the same pet around you over and over and over again?" He could feel Moriarty's fingers trail up and down his shoulder and arm, almost as if it were a tease. Part of Sherlock wanted to focus on what he was doing there. The other part wanted to pay attention to Moriarty's words. Sherlock could feel his heart slowing down; the drugs were wearing off.

"John is a fine companion, I find no fault with him," Moriarty stopped his fingers on his shoulder. Sherlock wanted to look, but he felt. He felt Moriarty's palm push down, his fingers spreading out across his clothing. Moriarty started to rub his shoulder, very gently, and Sherlock found it hard to focus on him again. Moriarty turned his head and stared at Sherlock with those dark eyes.

"I do not talk about loyalty," Moriarty whispered, "We both know he can be quite the pet." Sherlock felt Moriarty's hand slide across his shoulder, moving from place to place, rubbing against his skin with his hand. He tried to not think about it, but the effort was hopeless. "Aren't you bored of the same things every day?" Sherlock felt his headache worsening; Moriarty was quite the devil. Moriarty's hand did not stop rubbing his shoulder, his eyes did not once leave Sherlock's, and he could feel Moriarty leaning more into Sherlock.

Sociopaths were all the same. They required something new, something bold, something more exciting than the everyday routine. If Sherlock said he wasn't bored, he would be lying. And sociopaths only lie to get what they want. "So you're bored, just like me," Moriarty did not look away as Sherlock spoke, "so you wish to cure your boredom with me. Tell me, what kind of torturing will you do today?" Sherlock felt Moriarty's hand push up from his shoulder, his fingers back to tracing the clothing. It was a simple game of the mind.

Moriarty twisted his head toward the ceiling, smiling all the more. "It's always about torture with you, all about pain and death," Moriarty's voice growling over the last word,Sherlock noticed.Moriarty tilted his head back to Sherlock. Sherlock could feel something else on his body, something against his hip rubbing in circles. He was too focused on Moriarty to look at the hand that caressed. "Let's change up this game of ours with something fun," Sherlock could feel his right leg twitch at the touches Moriarty's other hand was giving.

Moriarty was right, he was bored.

Sherlock could feel his hands twist, trying to get out of the restraints, but Moriarty just smiled. "Oh, but I must say, you will still be tortured, my dear," Sherlock felt the other hand start to climb up the side and across his chest. Sherlock yearned for this, but the restraints, they were keeping him back. "But we both know we'll enjoy it," Sherlock's mind was racing, endorphins triggering in every place. Moriarty's hand had reached his neck, tickling at the bare skin shown. Moriarty's other hand left his shoulder; and Sherlock was finding it harder to focus.

"And you know this how?" Sherlock whispered. Moriarty felt the deep vibrations through his fingertips rack down his own body, stirring the beast within. A smirk fell on Moriarty's face, the hands tickling at Sherlock's neck

"Because we _both_ want something different," Moriarty replied. "Something out of the ordinary, out of life and what it offers every day. It's what you crave, Sherlock." As much as Sherlock wished to stay with John until his life expired, sometimes, he needed something more than what John could offer. And perhaps Moriarty was the answer. Moriarty raised his hands to Sherlock's face, his thumb rubbing Sherlock's cheeks. Sherlock felt his mind at top speeds, thinking of all the possibilities that could happen—but he was too focused on Moriarty and the dark eyes that bore into his. A short growl, a small moan, a little tug, and a tiny push made them collide. Their heads tilted to each other, their lips pushing against the others, their bodies wanting more.

Sherlock felt useless, trapped in the ropes that held him back, while Moriarty letthe freedom of exploration take over, his power over Sherlock making him hungry for more. Their tongues attacked the each other'smouths, swirling and dancing in perfect rhythm, tasting every bit of them. The small pants between them did not matter, they just wanted more. Moriarty did not pull away as he moved his body into a better position. Sherlock did not notice; he was taking all he could from Moriarty. Moriarty put one leg on each side of Sherlock, straddling him as they continued to kiss under the flickering lights in the warehouse.

Moriarty's hands slid down Sherlock's face and neck, his fingers underneath the lapels of Sherlock's suit jacket. He felt the hard tug his partner gave, pulling him more into his grasp. Sherlock obliged, as if saying, "Yes, Master, I'll do what you want, Master." Sherlock felt Moriarty pull away at times, but he bit at the bottom lip of his, pulling him back for more. Moriarty shifted in the slightest, and Sherlock let out a small moan that others would find useless. Moriarty felt the vibration of the moan shake down his body. He felt Sherlock push against his own body hard, and Moriarty pushed him back down, hard.

Finally being able to pull away, Moriarty rested his forehead against Sherlock's, both panting at the turn of events. Sherlock didn'ttry to get more from Moriarty, as his eyes bore back. Moriarty smirked. "Naughty, naughty, trying to get what you want," he whispered, growling the words to Sherlock underneath him. Sherlock could feel Moriarty's hands trail down his chest, the buttons loosening all the more. The cool air around crept over his sweating skin. The heat from Moriarty was not enough, but god, he did not care.

The last of the buttons were loosened, his chest exposed. Moriarty pushed the clothing back, the shirt and jacket hanging by Sherlock's hands cuffed together. Sherlock gripped his own jacket and held on tight, feeling the hands trace his arms and back down his chest. It excited him—he wanted more. Sherlock wanted to speak, but Moriarty silenced him. "My dear, you are getting so anxious. We've only just begun," Sherlock could feel the warm breath trickle down his throat, breathing in new air for what felt like the first time. How long would he last, he wondered. What would Moriarty do? It thrilled him, he wanted more. More, that's all he cared about.

Sherlock wished to speak, wished to do something, anything, but Moriarty tore away from his forehead and looked down at Sherlock's chest. He just smiled. "My dear, you should never hide this from me, these little secrets of yours," Sherlock knew he was talking about the tone. He was rather physical, so it was only natural that he would be fit. "I always want to know the best of you," Sherlock only nodded, his eyes saying: "Yes, Master, of course, Master."

Moriarty let his hands fall down to Sherlock's waist, just above his pant line. His head dipped down, kissing the newly exposed skin glowing under the lights. Sherlock could feel the slow trace of his fingers against his skin, all while Moriarty changed his kisses in different places, biting down on the skin in the slightest. But it drove Sherlock mad. The trickling of Moriarty's fingers against his ribs, twisting around to Sherlock's back, down his sides, down to Sherlock's hips, then back up to his upper chest to gently circle his erect nipples—Sherlock tilted his head back. He started to breathe at a quicker rate, feeling more and more aroused at the circulation of the hands. Sometimes, Moriarty would go back to leaving the love bites he was leaving on Sherlock's body, the little kisses planted in his skin, but those hands teased him so.

Moriarty trailed back up to Sherlock's neck with his mouth, gently sucking and biting on the sensitive skin against the crook of the neck. Sherlock hummed ever so slightly at the touch, rubbing the jacket's cloth between his fingertips. Moriarty was sure to see Sherlock struggling, but instead continued to leave little marks in Sherlock'sskin. Moriarty breathed in, tearing away from Sherlock for a moment. "Don't you wish," he whispered into his left ear, "you could just touch me?" Sherlock twitched at Moriarty's hands trailing back down his chest, slowly, making their way to his pants. "To do whatever you want to me?" Sherlock moved his arms, still trying to get out of the ropes, but to no avail. Moriarty smiled. "To be in control?" His hands stopped just at Sherlock's pant line, tickling at the sensitive skin right above his pelvis.

Sherlock moaned: "Yes." It was true, how he wished to be in control of the situation. Being useless, he had never felt this way before. He was trapped for the first time, and he hated and loved it at the same time. The emotions running through him—it was magnificent.

Moriarty's fingers unbuttoned Sherlock's pants, a sweet release from the torture he was enduring. Sherlock felt Moriarty's lips tug against his earlobe, all while his hands tugged at Sherlock's pants and underwear, Moriarty's grip ever so tight against the waistbands. Sherlock pushed his hips up, and he felt Moriarty release his grasp against his lap to let the clothing fall down to his feet. Moriarty used his feet to help Sherlock out of his pants, sliding them against the hard ground. When he sat back down, Moriarty sat on top of Sherlock's left leg, both of Moriarty's legs on either side.

"You should let me take care of your body more, my dear," Moriarty whispered. "Your pet does nothing for you."

Sherlock felt one of the hands go to his hip, tracing the bones that jutted out. It tickled against the bone. Moriarty then went around his hip bone down to his inner thigh, resting against the skin as a tease. His fingers rubbed in a circle, slowly and slowly going around and around, just for fun. The fingers leftthat spot and went back to Sherlock's hip, casually resting. Sherlock felt his toes slightly curl at the touch, his leg wanting to twitch, but Moriarty would not have such a thing.

Sherlock wanted to moan at the touch, but another touch came to play, one that slid up and down his erection, from the tip to the base. Sherlock bucked his hips up, a moan escaping his lips as he panted out to Moriarty. Sherlock could not stop; he had to tilt his head back. Sherlock felt every touch Moriarty's fingertips brought, every trace he did up and down the shaft.

Moriarty brought his lips to Sherlock'sneck, sucking on the skin for a few moments before releasing the skin. His hand did not stop tracing the delicate skin below. Moriarty was moving with his hand up and down Sherlock's erection, He felt Moriarty against his leg. He could feel the slight pants coming from Moriarty's lips against his neck, the causal moans vibrate in his neck shiver down his spine, and the beastly growls with every pump from Moriarty's hand. Sherlock just stared at the lights above, holding onto his jacket as hard as possible. He would last, he would do his best.

"Fuck," Sherlock whispered. Moriarty leaned away from his neck and stared at Sherlock.

"Fuck what?" Moriarty whispered back, Sherlock letting his head fall down to meet Moriarty's gaze. He did not move as Moriarty let their lips touch, their tongues tangle with each other's. Moriarty tore away before Sherlock could get what he want, what he needed. The dark eyes stared, watching and waiting for an answer.

Sherlock felt a small grip tighten around his penis, then letting go. He tilted his head back, whispering, "Fuck you," to Moriarty. Moriarty started to slow his pace, his moans coming to silence. Sherlock would not stop. He was feeling everything run through his body. Moriarty scooted closer to Sherlock's chest, his lips to his ear.

"Do you want to be in power, Sherlock?" Sherlock felt the fingers rise and fall along his shaft, a couple tracing beyond that. Sherlock could not respond, he was beyond ecstasy, and he wished to stay in this trance. "Do you want more?"

He started to beg: "Yes," he replied—and repeated. "Yes," he said again. Moriarty buried his face into Sherlock's neck, kissing the skin. Sherlock turned his head, motioning Moriarty to lean away so he can look at Sherlock. For a moment, their eyes bore into the others—then their lips connected once more. Moriarty bit at the bottom lip, dragging Sherlock with him as he leaned away. He let go, Sherlock begged for more.

He felt the hand leave his erection suddenly, pushing against his chest; Moriarty rose from his position, leaning into Sherlock's face to kiss his swollen lips, their breathing not subsiding. Sherlock twitched, and felt the painful throb in his lower half. Moriarty turned away from him and leaned forward, his knee sliding against the chair. Sherlock felt the knee grind against his crotch, a moan rumbling through his throat. Moriarty brought one hand on top of one of his shoulders, the other behind the chair. Sherlock could hear something behind him ripping and tearing, but his mind was too focused on the knee in the chair, the one thing keeping him away from his reasoning. In his ears, Sherlock could hear the beast call out: "Then show me."

In a ferocious swipe, the ropes were torn.

The second he was free, he was in control. When Sherlock'shands were free from his jacket and shirt, he wasted no time. He grabbed at Moriarty's lapels and pulled him down, his fingers searching for his buttons. Moriarty threw the knife away and felt his partner tear at his jacket. Moments would turn, his clothes against the floor. They were alone now, under the flickering lights, letting their hands explore again. Moriarty teased, letting his hands explore the others' hair, neck, back, and shoulders. Sherlock, meanwhile, wasted no time.

He didn't tease; his hands trailed down Moriarty's chest, feeling the rigidity of the skin poke against his fingertips. Down the chest and around the hips did his hands rest, holding onto the hips that sat on his lap moments before. Sherlock still felt the same knee grind against him, making him moan in pleasure, but he had a plan of his own. Sherlock slid his hand away from one of Moriarty's hips and gradually wrapped his fingers around Moriarty's erection, a firm grip grabbing hold. Moriarty moaned into Sherlock's mouth before pulling away, his fingers digging into Sherlock's shoulders. 

Sherlock smirked, panting along with his partner. He did not pump, he just let one of his fingers slide up and down the shaft underneath, slow at first. Moriarty would twitch, spasm, moan, groan, everything—and Sherlock loved it. He could feel the pulse spiraling through the penis, wanting more, just like Moriarty did. Sherlock stared at him, smirking. "You have had your fun, Jim," he growled, as the other moaned. "Now it's my turn."

Moriarty dug into the shoulders more, his fingernails breaching the skin. "You always have been rough on me, Sherlock dear," he rasped. One of his hands slid down Sherlock's arm, gently trailing the sweat on his body. And when he reached the fingers, Moriarty let his own fingers wrap around. Sherlock loosened his grip on Moriarty's cock and watched as Moriarty began to get on his knees. "Show me."

Sherlock would not waste another moment. He brought his free hand to Moriarty's cheek, cupping his face as their lips met. Sherlock would not get down on the ground, as he hovered above Moriarty with his knees bent. But he would hold onto the hand as they kissed, as their tongues battled against the other. And when he pulled away, Moriarty smirked and Sherlock whispered: "Turn around." Oh, Moriarty could not refuse.

Moriarty let go of Sherlock's hand as he turned around for him, showing Sherlock the vulnerable back he had. Sweat glistened on both their bodies under the dirty lights above, and it dripped onto the floor below. Sherlock bent down on his knees behind Moriarty, watching him spread his legs. Sherlock rubbed a hand against Moriarty's inner thigh and heard a low moan growl out of his mouth. Sherlock's fingers trailed more up the thigh, and he could hear his partner still moan, still begging for something to happen. And Sherlock would not let it slide anywhere. He would not make it gentle for Moriarty, not after what he had to go through in the chair.

One finger slid inside Moriarty; he cried out in a fantastic moan. Sherlock didn't see it, but Moriarty bit down on his bottom lip, breathing out as Sherlock went deeper, deeper, deeper until Sherlock hit his prostate. Moriarty let out a loud moan and gasp. He barely kept himself up on his elbows from it. Moriarty felt Sherlock rotate against it, teasing him. "F-Fuck," he whimpered. Moriarty could see his hands shaking against the concrete floor, twitching at the contact between him and Sherlock. Sherlock slid out then went back in. In, out, in, out, and all Moriarty could do was moan at each touch, at each slide. Sherlock would add another finger, faster, faster, harder and harder. Moriarty matched his movements and wanted more.

Moriarty turned his head to Sherlock with a smirk. "I thought—you wanted—to fuck me," Sherlock stopped his movements and rested a finger on his prostate again. Moriarty bit down on his lip again and let his head hang, struggling to suppress a moan. Sherlock began to massage it again, watching Moriarty struggle to cope with it all. Sherlock let his other hand trail up Moriarty's spine, trickling up the bones that barely jutted out. He felt Moriarty shiver.

"Do you want me to?" he kept massaging, and Moriarty couldn't handle it.

"Y-Yes," he moaned. Sherlock stopped and pulled away. Moriarty sighed in relief, and shook at the touches. He saw his knuckles a pale white, trying to dig into the ground for some support, for something. Sherlock pulled out and let his fingers slide across to Moriarty's hips, his own hand supporting him. The other hand trailed back down to the other hip. Moriarty could feel Sherlock move him, in control, powerful. He didn't help Sherlock; he just let his knees skid across the floor, anxious for what was to come.

He didn't have to wait long. Suddenly, Sherlock's cock had entered him, rushing inside until he was all the way in. Moriarty let out a large moan, gasping, but then he started to pleasurably laugh. Sherlock suppressed his moan as much as possible, digging his fingers into Moriarty's hips. Moriarty licked his lips and turned his head around to look at Sherlock. "Am I too much for you, Sherlock?" he breathed out. "Surely you have more for me."

Sherlock smirked. "I've always been rough on you, Jim," and Moriarty slid his fingers against the concrete floor.

"Good," he replied, feeling Sherlock pull out. He knew what to expect. He knew what was going to happen. And the first thrust was hard. Their bodies slapped against each other, a loud clap echoing in the warehouse. And it hurt, more for Moriarty than Sherlock. How Moriarty wished there was something to grab onto, like a bedpost. He would have to make a mental note of doing it on a bed next time.

Sherlock continued to thrust in and out, harder, and harder, and harder, keeping the same pace. Moriarty happily hummed out his moans, a smile creeping on his face. He loved it. He wanted to feel Sherlock in power, to see the ropes turned and see Sherlock get what he wanted. He was not going to stop him. "Give," clap, "me," clap, "more," clap. Sherlock heard his pleas, heard the pleasure in his voice, and he went a little faster, and faster, still as hard as he could against Moriarty. Moriarty clenched his jaw and hummed his moans again, hanging his head down to the ground, watching their bodies move together. It hurt, but he loved pain, receiving end or not.

Sherlock started to see colors. His breathing was getting faster, as was Moriarty's, but he was not about to let go. He continued to thrust in and out, getting rougher and rougher with Moriarty. Moriarty laughed every so often, moaning in delight with the sounds, and it made Sherlock more and more turned on. He wanted to wipe that smirk off Moriarty's face, listen to him cry out for him to stop, but instead, Sherlock was hearing him laugh. So he leaned forward, still going inside of Moriarty, barely brushing past his prostate with his tip, and let one of his hands grasp Moriarty's cock.

Moriarty quit laughing after that, letting out a small pained moan from his lips. With each thrust he could feel Sherlock's hand rise and fall, pumping with the rhythm of the thrusts. Moriarty knew he wouldn't last much longer. "F-Fuck me," he moaned, over and over again, repeating approval of it all. Sherlock heard the moans rattle through his body, and knew he wasn't going to last much longer either. He leaned his head forward a little more, feeling Moriarty's body start to shake.

"Come for me," Sherlock breathlessly moaned.

Moriarty gladly complied. He climaxed. He came with so much force, and he could still feel Sherlock pumping him through. His elbows gave out and he let his head rest against the concrete ground. Moriarty rasped out a few moans as he felt Sherlock inside him come with the same force. Sherlock matched him with the amount of moans, breathing heavily into his back, shaking at what was ejaculating into Moriarty. His hand around Moriarty's cock did not grip any tighter, but it had stopped. Moriarty and Sherlock gasped for air, heavily breathing the musky air around them.

Sherlock slowly and gently pulled out of Moriarty, then fell back on his bottom and leaned against the chair behind him. He was trying to catch his breath, gasping for air around him. Moriarty, on the other hand, was gasping for the same air, trying to regain the strength in his body so he could move, but he only rolled on his back, looking up at the lights. He smiled. Sherlock locked eyes.

"Just like me," Moriarty breathed, "Sherlock dear."

They both knew the sirens in the distance would be coming for them. John would make sure Sherlock was okay, Moriarty would be gone with his pet once it arrived. Another moment like this would be the chance of a lifetime. Neither one would move until that would happen. They would relish under the lights, finally excited to be alive.

Sherlock just smirked. Yes, he thought, never a dull moment for the both of them.


End file.
